A Lovely Pair with Lovely Hair
by Friendly Frat-Boy
Summary: Fred had always been a strange boy, ever since his younger years. But nobody could have expected what he would become; to what depths he would plummet. After being stuck in an institution for years on end, he is visited by Barabara, his old flame. And she makes him an offer: if he becomes sane once more, he can live with her until he gets back on his feet. He agrees.
1. Chapter 1: A Visit from an Old Flame

Her eyes were an azure blue, the colour of the sky on a cloudless day only once a year, when you were free and the sky seemed to smile down at the world without even the slightest trace of contempt. Like a pair of blue moons, comparable both in hue and rarity, and whenever Fred's eyes met them he could feel them shining through his whole being, exposing his life, his soul, and his naughtiness…

However, it was never her eyes that caught his attention. To him, they were mere gemstones in a sea of gold, entirely overlookable when viewing the illusterous bundle of wild, unkempt life that was her hair. It reached down far past her knees, spilling out onto the floor in thick, frenzied bundles of light. The only thing that kept her hair from being a ball of yarn with a diameter of approximately three meters were the little pink bows that kept them together and the excellent skill that had gone into braiding this mane untamed, skill that a certain jolly barber had possessed.

At this moment, unlike all the hundreds of times before his institutionalization, Fred was unable to gaze at anything apart from her eyes. This was not out of respect or some notion of politeness, but instead out of pure and sheer denial. Her golden locks, previously as far and plenty as a field of wheat basked in the golden rays of the sun, had been shredded off, reduced from their meters to mere centimeters, barely enough to run one's hand through. The rest of her bearing was also significantly changed: her posture was no longer straight as a rimrod from her noble uprising but instead from rigorous training, her dress was no longer of the fair girlish world, but instead of the harsh male variety, with coarse jeans and a simple, dark blue T-shirt covered by a stale leather-jacket gleaming in the pale blue light of the overhanging lamps that really did nothing to make her short, golden locks seem any more appealing.

Fred could barely keep his grip on sanity, and being forced to confront the errors of his past didn't do much to help that. He really didn't know why she had come now, after God-knows-how-many years had past since his institutionalization, but something told him it had something or another to do with the military. For the past months or years or so he had been fighting a losing battle on sanity with himself, always seeming to switch between himself, and some rhyming hair-crazed freak he couldn't believe was him. The drugs he'd been given helped, to be sure, but, as Dr. what's-his-name had told him, the drugs would only work in the short term, and only he could achieve any actual, long-term progress.

So it was that he now sat there, on one side of a three inch thick glass pane, staring into the baby-blue eyes of his former sweetheart, Barbara. To any unknowing onlooker, it would seem almost awkward, both of them sitting up with backs as straight as iron rods, staring wordlessly at each other. However, Fred knew that although Barbara may seem like a completely different person, with thin lips and distrusting eyes, he could still sense that underlying fear he had unearthed in her all those years ago when he got naughty.

"...You've changed," Barbara finally said, breaking the silence that had permeated the air between them. "How so?" Fred asked in his slow, monotone voice, meant to be soothing yet only able to be found as, well, quite freaky. If Fred was to be honest, he hadn't exactly put his whole into that question, on account of still being in shock over her rather unappealing hair-choices. Barbara averted her gaze from his and stared to the right, at the floor, unable to stand his steel gaze. "...Well, for starters, you're actually looking into my eye, but…" she pulled a thin yet calloused hand through her blonde locks, "-I suppose you only do so because of this. You're not angry… are you?" she asked shyly, the queer little girl he had fallen in love with so many years ago finally breaking the surface of the hardened soldier to reveal that she was, in fact, Barbara, and not some strangely false imitation. Fred was taken by surprise. Angry? He? Why, never! He couldn't actually recall the last time he was actually angry, or even upset, over, well, anything. Whether this was because of the myriad of drugs coursing through his limbic system at all times or because of his general apathy to most everything except, erm, hair, he didn't know. But, if he was to get angry, it would certainly not be over something his sweet beloved Barbara did.

"No, of course not," Fred replied hastily, shaking his hairy head in an exaggerated motion to prove his honesty. If he could, he would have waved his hand dismissively, however, his arms were currently being twisted above and over and behind each other on account of his being in a straight jacket, which most at this institution were as well. At first, he had been allowed to go without since he was a generally placid and unassuming case, however, during a particularly violent psychotic episode wherein he, in the absence of any professional tools, had found the best way of removing the hair from the scalp of a fellow inmate had been to gruesomely rip it out of it's sockets, and, as such, it had been rules that he was to wear a jacket at all times, no matter the circumstance.

Barbara seemed to understand his honesty, thankfully, and sighed in relief, giving a faint smile to the madly grinning Fred. Fred had long since come to realize that not grinning like a madman hurt more than being seen as, well, a madman. And so, he smiled back at her, his lips stretched beyond human possibility, his eyes dull and void of any joy that might have originally pulled at his cheeks in such a manner. "...That's another thing, why are you smiling like that?..." Barbara asked, seeming genuinely frightened by his countenance. "Hm? Oh, I-, well, I can't help it," Fred explained in a dismissive manner, hoping she wouldn't bring it up again. He couldn't help it, but when he was in his right mind, he certainly wasn't proud of it.

Barbara nodded once more, pressing her lips into a thin line. A heavy silence fell upon the two. A clock ticked monotonously in a corner, and the little room seemed much larger than it truly was. It was around five meters in all directions, being perfectly square and being pained in only one colour: cream. This also happened to be the colour of most everything in this particular institution. This was because the doctors had decided that the best way to make sure none of their patients had a fit was to not give them any positive or negative stimuli to have a fit over: no aggressive or calming colours, no delicious or disgusting food, no nice or mean wardans, only bland, boring, drab and regular was allowed. In fact, seeing such a harsh colour as blue and black had made Fred's heart almost skip a beat, but he had kept his excitement well-hidden under a wide, placid smile.

"...Why did you come here?" Fred finally inquired, unable to stand the question hanging silently in the air any longer. It had to be said. Barbara jerked at this question, obviously having dreaded both having to give the answer and the reaction he might have at said answer. "...I tried to find you at first, after you disappeared," Barbara began, looking off over Fred's right shoulder, unable to bear looking into his evergreen eyes.

"I searched for months, asking every single barber's shop in all of Somewhere, but barely any had heard of you, and those that had either said they'd had you for a short internship years ago or that you had applied but that was it: nothing conclusive," Barbara explained, her eyes floating awash in a sea of memories. "I eventually gave up, thinking that, well, if you were this diligent in your disappearance, then, you must not wish to meet me at all any more," Barbara explained, hastily shooting Fred an accusatory gaze, which Fred received with the faintest traces of shame.

"I joined the military shortly thereafter. I didn't know what else to do: all my life I'd been raised to be married off to some successful man, but after that failed…" she shrugged and smiled a little half-smile, running her hand through her hair habitually. Fred listened silently, unable to interject with as little as a hum of approval or a surprised gasp. He simply listened.

"I spent three months in initial training and an additional 7 to become a hunter, and after all was said and done, I'd gained more than just an occupation, I'd-," Barbara cut herself off, biting at her lower lip, almost unable to continue her recounting. Finally, she sighed, and looked straight into the eyes of Fred, her eyes as honed and precise as a hawk's. "I found a love. His name is Richard, and-, we live together now. I'm happy," Barbara finally said, her eyebrows scrunched together in aggression, like a girl confronting her father about her boyfriend, unsure if he'll accept it or not. And… did he?

What a strange sensation. Sure, Fred hadn't expected her to remain as she had always been, he knew that time passed by on the outside just as it did on the inside, but this… it was just so abrupt. His mother and brothers hadn't contacted him in any way during his stay, so he wasn't sure huw they had changed, but… Barbara had changed. A lot. So much so that she didn't need him in her life. No, in fact, if he even tried to enter her life, the results may very well have been abysmal. But, although this explained what she had been doing all of this time, one question remained unanswered.

"How did you find me?" Fred asked once more, his voice heavy and dull. Barbara jerked, her eyes widening ever-so-slightly at the sudden question. She had expected, no, wanted a reply of some sort, but… not quite like this. Swallowing down her doubts, she prepared her answer. "I'm a hunter chief now. It took some additional months of training, but… anyhoo. I-, one day, last october or so, I overheard something. I was in the cafeteria, just eating my rations as one should, when I heard a couple of privates at another table discussing something interesting: an asylum for barbers. Freaky barbers. Why would they even call it Freaky barbers? Isn't barbers enough? Anyhow, I overheard them speak of it, and I couldn't help but think of you. When we met, you were but a berber's pupil, but I hardly doubted you could become something much more, which, I guess you did?" she recalled, finally looking up to meet Fred's eyes. he nodded for her to continue, and she understood the sign.

"So, I heard them speak of the place, and I didn't think much of it, until, a couple months later, I saw the name again in the paper. Apparently, after a recent mass-escape-mass-capture, the place had somehow burnt down, leading to all the patients being relocated to various other institutions. And, well, long story short, I made a few calls, and, well… here I am," Barbara finally explained, smiling sadly at the grinning man, a shadow of the man she had once known. Back then, years in the past, he had been a quiet, soft-spoken young man, who was quick to smile and polite and quaint, a man with a passion and the devotion to fulfill it. Not the kind of man you predicted would someday end up in an institution or would go koo-koo or end up in the slammer or-, but, then again… it never is, is it?

Even know, years after it had happened, Barbara still couldn't believe that night had been real, and not some distorted, nightmarish hallucination. It had all been so sudden. One day he was by her side, softly flattering her with smooth-as-silk words of love and passion, and the next… she shuddered at the mere thought. She had been terrified, hadn't she? In hindsight, it had all been very silly, but in the moment, when your most beloved partner is upon you, his smile as wide as the crescent moon's, his eyes green and glowing and brimming with a burning passion for something that was anything but love, his otherwise handsome height suddenly terrifying and unsettling, it was anything but silly.

"-But I didn't come here just to tell you I'm doing well," Barbara finally said after realizing silence had once more befallen the pair. Fred looked up again, his eyes confused and lost and his smile wavering. "If-, and I do mean IF, you ever get released from here, and you don't have anywhere to go, I-, I and Richard will accept you. It won't be forever of course, but until you get back on your feet and find a job and all that, then… we'll be there for you," Barbara gracefully suggested, her face lighting up in a slightly, shy smile that made Fred realize she maybe wasn't so different after all. He shuffled uncomfortably in his jacket, looking down at the ground, unable to reply. He simply didn't know how to. After what he had done to her, she should hate him, she should tell him to rot here for his whole life, tell him she hoped he would never be released, and that the last thing he ever saw were the padded cream walls of his cells, so… why didn't she?

Fred couldn't feel the hot burning tears welling up in his eyes until they fell off of his cheeks and pitter-pattered onto his jacket, staining it slightly. "I-, thank you- I don't-, how can I-," Fred tried to thank her, to say anything, but his cheeks suddenly felt to stale, and his lips wouldn't move like they were supposed to, and he couldn't stop his tears, and-,

"It's fine, don't mention it," Barbara simply said, and showed him an angelic smile, and then she left. Fred didn't know when or how she left, but he could recall that, at the very least, the second she stood up to leave, he had been able to say something. "I-, I'll be sure to get out of here!" he had cried to her back as she left, and she simply gave a small little quivering thumbs up, as if she both encouraged his passion as well as regretted her decision to suggest he even try to get out.

He didn't know if this was how she felt, but at this moment, he felt more grateful than when he had received his fair-haired little pet so many years ago.

Oh, what a pet to get.


	2. Chapter 2: A Day He'd Not Forget

It had such fetching fur, and such fetching eyes that were so full of innocent and unknowing of the world, much like his own. He was but a young lad at that time, no older than ten, and he was oh-so very nice.

He always took his bath without a fuss, and he always did the dishes when Sarah, his sweet mother, was unable to due to her illness flaring up, he never complained when his father ripped up his paintings, and when his brothers picked on him he simply smiled and turned the other cheek. To his mother and her girlfriends, he was an angel. To his father and brothers, he might as well have been a devil.

After all, he was always impeccably dressed, constantly wearing vests and shirts and oxfords and dress-pants at home in the most queer of colours, and he was always smiling. Oh, that damn smile. At some times, his father, Brian, had almost wanted to slap the child just to see that unearthly smile falter in the very least, but somehow, he doubted even a beating from his own father would make that cursed child frown.

His brothers felt the same. But, since they had been with him for their whole lives, they could actually recognize the reason for this: his father. Not their father, mind you. Ever since that man had re-entered the household, after leaving their mother to raise all three children for seven years, Fred had been a completely different child. He was still quiet and shy and polite, but somehow, it had all been turned up, and whereas before he would spend his hours in the forest outside their estate, paining the most beautiful of pictures, he now followed Brian everywhere, entirely neglecting his aesthetic abilities in favour of watching his father trim the heads of gentlemen down at the parlour.

The most obvious feature to be perverted in the presence of his father was his smile. He had always been a child quick to smile, often having the slightest, most serene smile graze his face at all times, as if the mere act of seeing the beauty of the world was enough, and that he was content with everything it gave him. But when Brian appeared, the smile changed. What had been serene turned strained, and it seemed as if the grin itself grew wider and wider every day, stretching his very human limits to the brink of bursting. And, eventually, they would never see the boy with any expression but that wide, face-splitting grin. Like a permanent sneer without any actual feeling behind it, whether negative or positive.

The brothers, Steve and Chad, didn't much like the way they teased the poor lad, but, in some strange brotherly way they would never admit to, they hoped it would bring him back to the way he was. It didn't. If anything, it only made Fred retreat even further into himself.

However, one day, a day they'd not forget, was the day he first met his pet.

It was in the late days of October, when the leaves of the trees were all fallen and red on the ground, like a bloody blanket covering the entirety of the ground, and if Fred had been three years younger, he would have spent this day, this very special day that was his birthday, outside, painting this natural wonder with an artistic passion and a frivolous spirit, the kind of eccentrism that truly befitted an artist. But he was no longer an artist. He had thrown that dream away, and in that hand that once held a paintbrush, he now held a razor.

And so it was that he spent this very special day inside, reading books about a variety of subjects far too mature for his age, all in order to be ready for the life he planned for himself. It made his mother proud and his father didn't hate it with a passion, so he preferred it to any other activity at the moment. He spent the day itself as he did most days: reading, following his father around, helping his mother with chores around the house, etc. It was only in the evening, that dark dark evening when the spirits arose, that any actual celebrations took place. However, even these were rather miniscule.

There were no decorations to speak of, and although Fred liked this quite well, it was still quite the sorry sight. He did get a cake, but this was, much like decorations, a sorry sight indeed. It was mostly plain, with the only decoration being a single, purple rose adorning the simple sugar cake. Thankfully, he hadn't made the cake himself, but considering the fact that his mother's condition had taken a turn for the worse lately, it was no wonder that little pieces of eggshells were quite abundant in the sweet, and otherwise delicious cake.

Fred, the very nice child that he was, didn't mumble a word of complaint, instead thanking his mother for everything she had done for her and even going so far as to help her with the dishes afterwards. And, when all was said and done and Fred was happy and gay and just about ready to head to bed when his thin mother tapped his shoulder with her thin finger and he turned his face to view her thin pale face and she smiled at him and gestured with her finger to follow her. Fred gulped and followed.

"I kept him a secret, your father wouldn't have approved of him, such a sweet little thing, with eyes so fetching, oh you'll love him dearly, won't you?" His mother mumbled into the chilling cold autumn air. Fred could only understand that it was meant for him by the end. She turned her pale silver-blue eyes to view him and her pale lips quivered with anticipation. Fred simply nodded, unable to reply out of fear that whatever he said might not live up to her expectations. She nodded back at him and showed him that full-toothed not-quite-right smile she had been giving him ever since his father showed back up.

Eventually, their path lit up by the pale ivory moon, they found their way to a little shack Fred recognized to be the old groundskeepers shack. His mother, her fingers as pale as the moonlight as they held the little lamp lighting their way, quickly fished a little silver key out of the pouch of her olive-green dress and pushed it into the little keyhole on the door of the rickety shack. The shack itself was very small, barely the size of a lone room, and was dark-blue in colour. The windows were all boarded up, and to any outside viewer, it seemed abandoned for good. But, as his mother proved by pushing open the thin wooden door, it was not.

The door slid open with little complaint other than a harsh "krrr", proving that although not entirely abandoned, it was clearly on the brink. Fred was hesitant to enter the dark, unappealing cabin, but after his mother slinked inside, he could hardly refuse.

The inside of the shack was hardly any better, as the first thing that Fred noticed was a scampering of small feet, most likely rats, the second thing that hit him was the pugnant, permeating funk of dust and piss, the former from the age of the hut, the latter from the current inhabitants of said hut. Other than this, the hut was filled to the brim with... stuff. Scythes and saws and axes heads and cans of paint and pickled somethings and everything under the sun and moon.

But, in the midst of all this filth and rubbish, there was one thing that stood out, perched in the very center of the room, atop a grey, rickety little hand-crafted table, stood... something. It was draped over by a calm, sapphire blue cloth, shimmering like silver in the pale moonlight, clearly made of a fine, high quality material. Fred gasped slightly at the sight, inducing his mother to giggle slightly. "Don't be afraid, it's just little Stewart," she urged, removing the cloth covering the something with a ladylike flourish to reveal a little blue cage.

It was ornate and silverish and absolutely beautiful. But what truly captivated Fred's boyish heart was the little fuzzy thing inside of the cage. It was violet and shimmering like silk and it's fetching eyes were exactly the colour of his mother's and it was simply gorgeous. Fred didn't dare to approach, but his mother simply waved for him to approach, and, unable to deny her, he did just so. His whole body was shivering, the stale, frozen air around him biting into his skin and flesh. And yet, when he stepped up to the little cage to view the little creature, he suddenly felt an all-encompassing warmth spread through him. His mother carefully opened the door of the cage with a small, ivory key, the little creature jerking back at the sudden influx of noise.

Fred didn't really mind the obvious fear the little creature was exhibiting, his little cold hands closing over the fuzzy little ball of fur with a strange, uncharacteristic need to hold it, to touch it, to be naughty with it. His mother didn't seem to mind, or even notice this strange passion her son was experiencing, simply smiling at the young child calmly. "It's for you, Stewart is his name, you will treasure him, won't you?" his mother asked, her eyes glazed and cold and distant. Fred looked to the pet shivering in his hands and to his mother, his grin suddenly seeming much more honest and true, and he nodded.

The not-quite-right pair took the little creature in it's little cage back to the estate following the same path that had taken them to the shack. For the first time since Fred had met his father, Fred had found himself truly treasuring something. During the coming four months, Fred kept the violet creature in his room, gradually gaining it's trust, eventually being able to hold it without it shivering or loudly protesting in the form of squeaking.

This was when it happened.


	3. Chapter 3: The Incident

**WARNING: This chapter includes graphic imagery in the form of animal abuse, so if you van't handle the stuff, you can just skip thic chapter, or hop off the tram once the satchel stars being mentioned.**

_Aaaaand that's it for warnings. Yo! I'm Friendly Frat-Boy, the writer of this, weird fanfiction, and, as the warning mentions, this one will be a bit different than the two previous ones. Well, if you're fine with this kinda stuff you should be alright, but I wanted to put in this warning anyways. And to you 8 who have read this story so far... nice havin' ya! Hope you enjoyed what you read and I hope whoever reads this will enjoy his chapter as well!_

_See ya!_

It was a cold evening in February, when the trees yet stood bare and the snow littered the ground, the air as chilled and cold as contempt, and Fred was very, very tired. For the past month or so, his father had forbidden him from coming along to the barber-shop, and Fred was oh so very bored. He could paint. In fact, when he had been given his beloved pet he had taken the time to paint a picture of it, and his mother had been so enamored with his painting that she put it in a frame and hung it on the wall. Well, she didn't put it in a frame and hang it, but his father did by her command. Her disease had only gotten worse, and she had been bedridden for the last two weeks, leading his brothers to believe she was on her deathbed, and subsequently to do pretty much everything she asked of them, which included being nice to Fred.

And so, in short, Fred was feeling less than optimal, his smile growing more and more strained every day, and his oldest brother, Steve, had even noticed him frowning at times, which, by this point, was honestly creepier than him grinning.

Fred placed his hand on the cold window-pane of his room, his bright-green eyes lazily moving over to glance at Stewart, his beloved pet. He honestly didn't know what he was doing or what he was thinking, but without much emotion at all, he had gotten to his feet and started walking out of his room and into the hall. He didn't know where he was going. He didn't even feel like he was walking at all. Like somebody was controlling his body. As he came nearer his father's personal study, he suddenly realized where he was going. Oh. Right. That's why.

The study was usually locked, but today, it was mysteriously open. Fred could faintly recall how he had noticed his father unlock the room earlier that morning, but forget to lock it. That's why. Fred pushed the door open and carefully pulled it closed once he had entered. The study was small, barely the size of a closet, and contained only a bookcase, a desk, and… the tools. That's why.

Grabbing the little satchel marked with his father's initials, "B.v.H.", Fred fled the room, his breath in his throat and his eyes suddenly wide and panicked as he rushed down the hall back to his sanctuary. What was he doing? What he needed to.

Emerging back into his room, Fred's frenzied eyes immediately fell upon the small, silver cage containing his little beloved pet. At seeing the long, curling fur, Fred's mania was briefly doused, his breathing slowed down, his panting ceased and his bushy eyebrows fell down to cover to top of his eyes once more. But, in this brief moment of calm, the purple pet turned it's quaint little head, and it's fetching blue eyes met Fred's, and his mania was roused once more, now growing even stronger than before.

With unnerving pompadour, he turned the key in the keyhole of his door, something which he couldn't recall ever doing before, because, after all, he had never before been naughty…

The little furry animal must have understood something was off, as it immediately jerked up into a standing position, it's little clawed hands trembling against the underside of it's fur. Fred didn't mind. Or, rather, he didn't much care. Opening the little door of the cage, which was always unlocked since Stewart never did attempt to leave it, Fred lunged at the ball of fuzz with his right arm, harshly grabbing hold of the poor thing and yanking it out of it's home. The creature, now acutely aware that what would come to follow this was not the usual cuddles and soothing cooings, squealed loudly in a voice Fred hadn't heard since he first held the creature all those months ago. But this time, he would not be holding it out of curiosity. At least, not the same kind of curiosity with which he had held it back then.

With his prize in hand, the boy felt his stale grin gain life, a passion he had never felt before tugging at his cheeks, allowing his crooked, downright malformed teeth to poke out between his pencil-thin lips. With a powerful sweeping motion, Fred pushed all the books, all the pens and all the paper off of his window-facing desk, cleaning out all the clutter so that he could properly work. The terrified creature squirming in his hands could do little to stop the boy as he downright slammed it down on the hard oaken piece of furniture. The creature, unused to the harsh treatment, gasped at it's air suddenly being drawn from it's lungs, a shrill squeak escaping it's lips. Fred gasped at this little notion, feeling how his face heated up at all the limbs scratching and twisting under his powerful grip, the fur becoming knotted and unsightly.

Clicking his tongue, Fred was quick to bare his contempt of how unsightly Stewart was being. He needed to work, but how could he possibly work(and work well) when this peccable little rat kept trying to squirm and twist out of his grip? This wouldn't do, oh, it would not.

Still holding the unwilling little client, Fred reached for his father's satchel with his unoccupied hand, dragging the remarkably heavy thing over to the desk. And with a heave that shouldn't have been possible for a boy his age, his lifted the satchel atop his desk, and clicked open the top of it.

Inside, Fred found a myriad of professional-grade barber's items, from manual, antique razors and hair-brushes to scissors and combs. But, most interestingly, specifically for his current purposes, Fred found a small, blue case filled with pin-headed needles, most likely used to attach fabrics to hair in a temporary manner. The thin little pieces of metal gleamed in the setting sun, giving Fred, the creative child that he was, tons of ideas.

Placing Stewart on the desk once more, Fred forced it to spread it's limbs out, one hand holding the chest down and another forcing a limb to point straight away from the main body. And then, placing a thumb on the limb and holding a needle with the other, he would impale the hand of the small animal, severing arteries and scraping against bone, compelling it to scream, not squeal, in a manner that might make one believe it's life was on the line. And, in some ways, it was.

Taking a step back, Fred couldn't help but admire his work. The little lavender creature had ceased squirming and fighting, but not out of lack of will. It simply knew that any sort of movement would only bring more pain than not moving would. Every single limb it possessed, both hands and feet, were impaled brutally, a pin-headed needle sticking out of each and every one, a generous amount of blood soaking the area around the wound either due to the squirming of the purple pet or the inability to keep the needle going straight by the less-than-sane owner. The bright, ruby-red blood contrasted nicely with the amethyst-purple coat of fur, something that the artistic Fred would usually have appreciated, however, at this moment, he didn't even notice this, as focused as he was on the entirety. And, even more than the creature itself… it's fur.

At the moment, due to the sudden and immense stress placed upon the otherwise placid and peaceful animal, the fur was all in the wrong places, twisted and knotted up in little uneven balls. This would not do. Recalling how his father might go about unfurling the knots in the hair of his less-proper clients, Fred quickly rummaged through the satchel looking for one specific item he knew would do the trick. Within moments, he quickly and easily fished out the object he had searched for: a little ivory comb, shining and gleaming mischievously in the light of the setting sun, something Fred knew his father held dear. Stewart started squirming yet again at the sight of the unknown object, believing it to be some infernal tool of torture, not caring even if the needles skewering it made electric jolts of pain coarse through it's spine. However, imagine it's surprise when, unlike the pain it imagined, a soothing kind of pleasure came instead as Fred gingerly dragged the little ivory comb through its coat, un-knitting all the knots and forcing clots of strained hair to regain it's individuality. In all honesty, it didn't feel much bad. It might even have been a pleasant pastime if not for the pins and needles keeping it in place.

After only a minute or so, it's fur gleamed anew, making Fred grin smugly. But his work was far from over. He had been studying his father closely, with all the shampooing and careful cutting and trimming, and thus he knew for a fact that he would not be able to recreate the kinds of artistic genius his father would enact using the hair of his customers. This was due to the general shortness that his pet's hair exhibited. Indeed, the hair was quite long relative to the size of the beast, but when compared to the length and volume of a human of the fair sex, there was simply no competition. Just a trim, then.

Once more fishing through the barber's satchel, Fred easily found and recovered the most classic of barber's tools: the scissors. The scissors in question were entirely metallic, looking perfectly professional and well-suited for cutting the few, stress-damaged strands of hair that the local businessmen had. His father was a serious man with serious customers who, therefore, had a serious pair of scissors. It was as simple as that. In fact, Fred could barely recall his father cutting hair using any scissors apart from these: they were inseparable. Which brought up the question… why had his father left his satchel behind?

This thought, this very rational question he should have asked the second he found it in his father's study, was gone as soon as it appeared, as unnecessary and irrelevant a question as why the sky was blue. Shaking his head, Fred brought himself back to the present: to the shivering little bleeding creature before him and the gleaming, chrome scissors whispering to him from within his small hand. And he listened.

He didn't know what he was doing, not really; it was all so different from when he saw his father do it. He had made it look so simple, so clean, so nice. But now, when the little tufts of hair fell and mingled with the ever-growing patches of blood on the desk, and individual strands of amethyst hair danced like wisps in the air, he understood just how much he had to learn. But he didn't only cut off hair, no, although he tried to keep the animal mostly whole, he couldn't help a few slip-ups. A finger here, a little piece of an ear there… in the end, the little creature, now no longer even reacting to whatever Fred did except a little shutter when another piece of flesh fell to the oaken desk with a splat, was left a shadow of it's former self.

The results were hardly perfect. The creature was still mostly covered by a thin sheen of purple fur that he simply couldn't remove without bringing the skin underneath it along for the ride, and the poor thing was bleeding from pretty much everywhere. Fred hadn't meant to do any of it, really he hadn't. He just wanted to give it a trim, like his dad would. And yet, when he saw that dying life-form he had considered his greatest treasure heave and pant, bleeding from every limb and every inch of its body, he could not feel an ounce of pity for the hurt little thing, or any shame for having maltreated his beloved pet, the most precious thing his mother had given him, or any emotion of this ilk. For some reason, for some odd, strange reason he couldn't do well to comprehend at the time, he felt a sense of… pride.

But he wasn't done. Oh, no, he was not. He knew there was more to be done: how could he possibly be happy and content when the whole of the hair was so grossly uneven? Yes, he had to ratify this, to somehow remove all the hair seamlessly, but… how? This scissor, as sharp and as malevolent as it was, simply couldn't remove all the hair perfectly in a way that left the skin untouched. It was too… barbaric.

So, with a sudden panic shrouding his mind, Fred started rummaging through the satchel, his displeasure growing by the second, his fingers tracing over the items within the leather bag with an uncharacteristic, feverish fervour, his restlessness eventually growing so strong that he resorted to throwing things out of the bag to get a better look at what was in it, sharp objects in all forms and sizes were flung all over his room, some embedding themselves into his bed, others clattering onto the floor, making small scratches here and there. Fred could hear himself mumbling, but he didn't know what he was saying. The satchel was large and it felt bottomless, and yet, it was soon empty.

Peering into the dark-blue empty satchel, Fred felt his body grow stale, his breath rugged and uneven, his heart beating out of his chest, his hair, which was usually quite well-kept, wild and tattered, and his chest felt oh so very empty. He was just on the edge of a well-deserved and glorious climax, when, all of a sudden, his reward was robbed from him, stolen from right under his nose. Fred could feel hot tears welling up in his eyes. He had been so close, and yet…

But, when he collapsed forward on top of the satchel, his hand grasping at the edge of the table to keep some form of composure, he noticed something gleaming at the very bottom of the satchel, almost completely hidden from sight. Drying his tears with the cuff of his shirt, Fred peeked inside, his brows furrowed in confusion. There, at the very bottom, lay something he had never seen his father use before. A little piece of red, shining machinery he couldn't even begin to understand. Grabbing at it, Fred carefully removed it from the satchel, nervously noticing how one end of it was gray and sharp.

Fred felt how his cheeks started to heat up and his heart, which had sank to the very pits of stomach, suddenly started pounding loudly in his ears. Fred swallowed loudly and examined the plastic-looking red thing. It was strangely shaped, like an eye from the side and a rectangle from the top, and, most noticeably, on what Fred assumed to be the handle, there was a single, big, green button, contrasting sharply with the red plastic surrounding it.

Fred nervously pressed the button and jerked at the sudden buzzing noise the strange apparatus made. The metal blades had started whirring and tugging and moving, and as if it was in his very dna, Fred simply knew how to use it. Pressing it up against the underside of the newly reawakened Stewart, he found that this little tool easily filled the purpose he had searched for a tool to do: it shaved.

The blades whirred, and in response, hair flew in all directions, until, finally, the only hair remaining on the little pale creature was the furry tail. What, it's not like he'd shave the tail. Why, that would be… weird.

The second he was finished, truly and wonderfully finished, Fred dumped all the tools into the satchel, threw said satchel back in the study, placed the traumatized little thing back in it's cage, and proceeded to grab a canvas, paint and some brushes. Using these, he quickly drew up a beautiful portrait of his disfigured little pet, which was a rather inaccurate portrayal of the truth, as he forgot to paint all of his little slip-ups.

But, when all was said and done, Fred could honestly say he was happy, and for the remainder of the day, the grin he bore was neither strained nor false, having a pure and simple honesty to it that surprised his brothers. However, after his skillful portrait had been hung and he had proudly informed his parents of what he had done(forgetting a few minor details, of course), Fred sadly found his dear little pet unwilling to eat, or sleep, or do much of anything, which led to its eventual demise only a few mournful days later.

Fred truly was sad, altough one might doubt this considering whose fault the tragic death was, but he couldn't help himself, could he? After all, such fuzz, such fuzz, did demand that he be naughty...


	4. Chapter 4: A Father's Love

It was a devil's child, that boy.

It didn't seem to have an ounce of joy or sadness in it, like everything it saw was merely as it was, entirely objective with nothing subjective about it. Brian was an intelligent man, he knew something was off about that child the moment he set eyes on him. To make it even worse, that kid was **his **kid. The two other children in the dying house of "von Holst" were normal, but they weren't his. Sarah hadn't exactly been in premium condition when he came around to liven up the place all those years ago, she had already had two children and two corresponding divorces at that point, and if she hadn't have fallen sick and the economics been the way they were, he probably wouldn't ever have returned.

God, the moment he saw that shaggy-haired kids with cat-green eyes and a smile that could rival the moon he should just have ran straight away. But the girl would be gone soon, and if he just hung around until the disease finally took her, the entire estate would be his. The kids could go to some orphanage whenever that happened and they'd be out of his hair.

Hair. Yeah, that was another thing about that disturbing little kid. At first, it was just preoccupied with painting and reading and whatever, but once it found out he was a barber… God, the way those jade eyes lit up and that smile suddenly became permanent should have tipped him off. Every day, every damn day, that little imp would follow him to work and sit in some dark and dusty corner of his fine establishment, staring at him, or, rather, whoever he was barbering, with some weird energetic fervour that Brian couldn't recognize. If Brian had been a more genuine man, he might have recognized this as being a pure, unadulterated and untainted **passion**, something that Brian himself obviously didn't have for the barbering profession.

And for three years, Brian put up with it. Three uneventful birthdays and Sarah only grew weaker and weaker. Fred's obsession with barbering, on the other hand, only seemed to grow stronger. And after a certain afternoon where he had caught Fred attempting to cut the hair of one of his unknowing clients, he had forbidden the grinning little lunatic-in-the-making from coming with him to his reputable salon. The child had accepted it with a smile, but Brian could tell there was more to it than that. And after just a couple of weeks, he finally got a first-hand look at what exactly the child could, and would, do if robbed of it's daily amusements.

It would have been a day like any other, had Brian not decided to change one little thing. He had, on that day, decided that he wouldn't be going to work. There was nothing special about the day itself, not really, it was a thursday like any other, but when he got up in the morning, dragging his somewhat muscular body out of his small, one-person bed (who would sleep in the same bed as a diseased woman?) he knew that he wouldn't get much work done. Steve and Chad, the children that weren't insane, were as rumbustious and loud as children usually were, although, thanks to their mothers ailment, they now did all their mischievous deeds downstairs, where her condition wouldn't worsen because of them. But even they knew better than to cause a ruckus as 6 in the morning, so when Brian got up, the house was entirely quiet.

He moved through the house silently, like a specter of a man. He was, at this time, only dressed in his silken bathrobe, and although he had to say he despised such luxuries, he couldn't reject the gift since it had been given to him on his birthday. He had to admit it was quite comfortable. And yet, if he were given the chance to sell it at the same price it had been bought, assuming nobody was saddened by it, he wouldn't hesitate to sell it even for a second.

But when he walked through the mansion-like estate that was his home, he quickly came to realize something. Although the air in the estate was stale and unmoved and dead, it was clear he was not alone. Every single room was as silent as the grave, and yet, the felt the presence of something shift about, following him at a distance, unwilling to make itself known. Three years ago, this would have terrified Brian and make him believe an intruder was in the house, but by now, he was not only used to this, but also knew exactly who it was.

"...No, you may not come along with me to the barber-shop," Brian stated seemingly into the empty air. But the second he said this, there was a shuffling noise, and from behind an empty door-frame, the petite form of young little Fred made itself visible. He was wearing a little yellow vest with a pair of matching yellow dress-pants, a pink shirt and a purple bow-tie, perfectly dressed to go out to town. But, it was never his dress that made him stand out. No, as you may recall, it was his smile. That damned smile.

The young, pale-skinned and green-eyed boy seemed to smile almost shamefully at the older man. But it was really hard to tell, since how he smiled at people was, more often than not, determined by how people thought he should feel instead of how he actually felt. Nobody knew how he actually felt.

Noticing the steely gaze Brian was giving him, Fred averted his gaze, looking down to the right. Brian, in turn, noticed this, and huffed sternly before continuing his rather long walk to the kitchen. God this place was big. Fred trailed behind him slowly, not making a single sound despite wearing a pair of black oxfords.

The morning went on as it usually would: dressing himself, eating a light breakfast, grabbing his satchel of barbers-items from his study, and making his way to the front door to leave. Somewhere along the way, he'd lost track of where Fred was supposed to be, and after taking a quick peek around the rooms closest to him, he eventually decided that Fred had probably given up on coming with him to the barber-shop, for the fourteenth day in a row, and had headed back to his room to mope. Standing by the front door, Brian decided that, since he wouldn't be going to work today anyways, he wouldn't be needing his satchel.

Brian quickly headed back to his study, placed the satchel back where it belonged, closed the door, and didn't think much more of it. However, unbeknownst to him, he was being observed, and these cat-green eyes saw very clearly how he had forgotten to lock said study. A seemingly unimportant hiccup which would prove to have disastrous results for the life of a certain lavender pet.

Brian quickly left the manor behind and headed out into the city. Well, it was more of a small town, but since it was surrounded by miniscule villages, whoever came from these villages to visit the town found the town to be absolutely humongous in comparison. And, in this town, one of the largest families was the von Holst family, of which Brian was a honorary member. Sarah was the last of the actual members, and if she hadn't had three children, it would be easy to say the family was a dying one.

So, if Brian didn't go to the upper-class barbering establishment he owned, where did he go? The town was certainly not a bustling one, nor was it any particular hub for tourism, so the amount of shops and entertainment was low, the only actual form of entertainment being a cinema that only played romantic movies, strangely enough. Brian had never been there, and he certainly wasn't planning on going there any time soon. No, as he walked through the dingy little town he called his home, his feets quickly carrying him from the fancier, high-class areas where he currently made him home, and into the poorer, more lower-class living quarters he had been born and raised in.

The streets were now no longer lined with cobblestones, simply being a road of pressed-down dirt and gravel worn out by immeasurable years of innumerable feet, a pair of which had been no one but his. Twenty-five years ago, Brian had been but a little snot-nosed brat, shrieking about some dream of seeing the world or other, the only thing he actually cared about being a little lass he had caught the eye of. Johanna, that was her name. A fair-skinned little girl, with black hair and deep, blue eyes, a laugh like a chicken and little freckles as if somebody had sprayed the juice of an orange on her face. It had been love at first sight, and even now, his thoughts rare strayed from her. He had become a harder, more real man, casting aside all his dreams of travelling to become a barber and marry into the upper-class, while she had remained in the slums, still dreaming of a better life. But they had never left each other's side.

Taking a familiar turn to the left from the harsh main-road, Brian found himself in a little darkened alleyway between two creaking unstable houses. This alley didn't have any actual name, but he and Johanna had always called it the Smuggler's Creek, since, well… Brian couldn't remember why they called it that, but Johanna could probably remember. She had always been better at remembering things, and he knew that if she had ever been given the opportunity, she could have become a veterinarian, as she always had wanted to be. As it was, she was stuck weaving woolen carpets. A damn waste of a fine mind.

The first door on the left. It was painted black and completely unlabeled, looking about as sketchy as a door can possibly look. Brian knew this was just to keep away nosey little thieves, but he still thought they could put like a sign on it or something. Stretching out his right hand, Brian knocked on the door in a certain pattern. First three, then a pause, than four, and then two. After about a moment or so of silence following this strange knock, there was a great shuffling noise from inside the door as half a dozen or so locks were unlocked, unhinged and removed. Finally, the handle of the door was pressed down, and the door slid open, a dainty little pale-faced girl poking her head outside to get a hum of who was knocking on the door. But she saw nobody.

For a brief moment, the girl, Johanna, furrowed her thin little brows and stepped outside, wondering if somebody had ding-dong-ditched her, but that would be strange, since only one man knew their special knock-, "BOO!" Brian roared, jumping out from behind the door. Johanna shrieked at his sudden appearance and fumbled backwards into the doorway she had come out of. "Bwahahahaha! You should have seen your face!" Brian bellowed at the poor spooked girl. "Y-, you!-..." she stuttered at the taller, mustache-clad man. But, she got an idea. A mischievous little grin spread across her face, and before Brian could react, she slammed the door shut, locking a couple of the locks in a very loud and audible manner.

"Hahaa-, h-, hey! Wait up don't-, Johannaaa, open back up! I get one day off and you wanna spend it like this?" Brian groaned with a smile to the girl giggling madly on the other side of the door. This little fact got the girl excited, and within only a second, she got the door back open and hopped back outside, stars in her eyes as she joyfully looked up at her lover. "Really? You have the whole day off!? Don't they need you down by the factory?" Johanna exclaimed with a smile as radiant as the sun. Yup. This was it. This was why he married that dying wrench Sarah, why he stood out with that lunatic-in-the-making Fred. So that, in a year or so, he could take over the estate, and tell her he had been contacted by a lawmaker who said he was the lone heir to a dying estate. And then they could both get out of here. Whether they were to keep living in this nostalgia-ridden gutter of a town or travel the world as he had wanted to all those years was up to her. As long as she continued to smile like this, he could deal with anything that God-forsaken noble family could throw at him.

At least, that was what he thought. When he came home that evening, after a day of fun and stress-relieving relaxation with his beloved, he found an odd little detail about his satchel. He had forgotten to lock his study, which was a rare occurrence, but it shouldn't have meant anything. And it wouldn't have, had he not found the tiniest, smallest philliments of purple hair adorning the rim of his beloved satchel. He was quite confused. And that he would continue to be for the remainder of the evening, another odd detail being that the little smiling imp that would usually dwell almost exclusively in the library or it's room, was streaking about, looking strangely queer, his grin wider than Brian could ever recall it being, a strange glint of pride shining up his green eyes. It almost felt as if he was asking for something. Some kind of approval. Brian would come to realize this was exactly what he wanted.

It began with finding little red spots on his scissors. Small, almost unnoticeable purple hairs littered his satchel. That boy had done something. Brian scarcely knew what, nor did he care much to find out, bue he had to. The mystery was simply too intrusive. And so it was that one evening, the third after his day-off, he made to ask the boy. "Have you used my tools?" Brian inquired, forcing the boy to look up from his heavy book on god-knows-what. The buy furrowed his eyebrows for a moment, clearly confused by Brian's question, before they suddenly flared to life, the dull smile the boy wore like a medal growing wider yet. "...So you have. What did you do?" Brian asked, allowing himself to be guided to the scene of the crime by the spinly little imp.

The creature seemed somehow both anxious and thrilled to show Brian to it's room, wherein Brian was sure some sort of horrid something had been committed. He wasn't sure what it was, and, then again, it couldn't be so bad, now could it? As devilish as the lad seemed, it was still human. Still capable of some sort of emotion, some form of empathy.

That was not the case. The room itself was in tatters, holes having been ripped open haphazardly without any obvious patterns, as if somebody had thrown knives all over the mattress. The boy did not seem to mind this. There were holes in the curtains as well, although these were less pronounced, much like the little scratches and scaffolds on the floor. But none of these things seemed to bother the child in the least, as he barely gave them even a passing glance, instead striding to his desk instead. Atop the desk, where Brian could remember the child always kept at least fifteen books and a corresponding amount of pencils, the boy instead kept only the cage wherein his pet was enclosed. At least, that was what Brian thought. He could not see the pet. Although he was within only a couple of meters of the little silver cage, the distinct purple for of the unidentified creature was mysteriously absent. Taking a step closer, Brian quickly noticed why this was.

Huddled in the furthest right corner of the cage, the little creature sat shivering, standing on it's hind-legs, not a single strand of hair to be seen on it. It's large eyes were wide with fear and loathing, yet it's still silence made it clear that it would not do anything to act upon this loathing, the fear being the prominent emotion. This little animal, much like the room itself, was a lamentable mess, it's entire body riddled with small wounds that simply wouldn't heal and had started to get infected in response to simply not being treated. A wounded animal would normally lick its wound to make sure something like this wouldn't happen, but this un-furred animal had clearly been too traumatized to do even such a basic ritual. If it continued ike this, it would be dead within the week, that much was for sure.

"You-, what did you-," Brian stuttered, his face contorting in a grimace of disgust and horror. The boy looked up at him. His eyes were so green and so large and yet so empty-, and-, "I cut him, daddy," the child said, his face lighting up in a bright, pure smile. "Just like you would," it continued, it's eyes gleaming with childlike excitement. It wanted something. It looked just like a cat who had brought in a dead bird, expecting some kind of reward, some kind of praise. Same eyes, too. The eyes of a cold-blooded killer-in-the-makings.

Brian was right, only a few days after this fateful encounter, the poor little creature was dead, and for the first time since Brian had re-entered the household, he saw the child actually, genuinely sad, and for the coming days or so, he would see the child haunt the halls, eyes sunken with black bags underneath them, a shadow of mourning cast over it's little face. Unable to stand the sorry sight, Brian finally caved in and allowed his little protogé to come with him to the barbershop, which seemed to do the trick, since the child was back to his usual jolly self within mere days.

The coming years would be tough for Brian, but he had decided on making his and Johanna's life more bearable in the future, and so, that he would do.


End file.
